


The heart is (more than) a muscle

by Charona



Category: Formula 1 RPF, Motorsport RPF
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Abusive Parents, Childhood Trauma, Fights, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Nightmares, Past Affairs, Past Child Abuse, Protective Daniel, SO MUCH SADNESS, Specks of fluff, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, a lot is unhealthy here, stubborn Max, taciturnity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-07 21:34:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19093588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charona/pseuds/Charona
Summary: “Child abuse: all forms of physical and/or emotional ill-treatment, sexual abuse, neglect or negligent treatment or commercial or other exploitation, resulting in actual or potential harm to the child’s health, survival, development or dignity in context of a relationship of responsibility, trust or power.”Daniel lowers his phone, glances at Max and swallows the salty taste of tears.





	1. Borderlands

**Author's Note:**

> Hey folks!  
> Yeah, I’m back at it again and it’s going to be another hellish ride, I can promise you that!  
> The fuse leading to this story has been lit weeks ago, but I’m still struggling with words here and there and it will be VERY dark and psychologically exhausting. I tend to apologize a lot for whatever I’m writing, but I guess here it’s actually appropriate.  
> The warnings here apply even more than they did in “thunder and lightning”, so please be careful, folks! 
> 
> This story is in some way therapeutic (for my own and other’s experiences), please consider that in your comments ;)
> 
> Other than that, have fun as far as possible and I hope you like it :D Tell me, if you do and tell me if you don't, too! ;)  
> Oh, and the beginning is set in the early 2017 season.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks!  
> Yeah, I’m back at it again and it’s going to be another hellish ride, I can promise you that!  
> The fuse leading to this story has been lit weeks ago, but I’m still struggling with words here and there and it will be VERY dark and psychologically exhausting. I tend to apologize a lot for whatever I’m writing, but I guess here it’s actually appropriate.  
> The warnings here apply even more than they did in “thunder and lightning”, so please be careful, folks! 
> 
> This story is in some way therapeutic (for my own and other’s experiences), please consider that in your comments ;)
> 
> Other than that, have fun as far as possible and I hope you like it :D Tell me, if you do and tell me if you don't, too! ;)  
> Oh, and the beginning is set in the early 2017 season.

It’s the little things.  
It’s the little things about Max that let Daniel wander through his motorhome like a tiger behind cage bars, ruffling his deranged hair, his rage in a helpless search of a way out.  
It’s the little things about Max that set Daniel on fire and let liquid flames rush through his veins and lick at his sanity until he runs into danger of setting the whole paddock ablaze with a single outburst of uncontrollable fury.

Max carries himself in public in an armed and unbending and stubborn manner. His dogged determination, the almost brutal seriousness he radiates at the unbelievable age of 19.  
It seems that there is nothing on this earth that could break Max Verstappen – or even bend him just a little bit into a more humane and less cold being, made of steely professionalism and a hunger for greatness that drowns out everything else.  
It even drowns out every hint of guilt that would be (more than) appropriate after Hungary.  
Max apologizes, but Daniel can tell from the straightened back, the clear and piercing blue in his eyes and the way he offers him the cold beer bottle that it’s just an acceptable retreat and cautious movement behind the own front line to make the enemy think himself safe until the next shelling. Daniel acknowledges that apology that is none because it’s the right thing to do and he secretly harbors an immeasurable amount of respect and fondness for his rival.  
Daniel copes with it, with Max and all that the three letters entail in the only way he has ever learned when it came to coping with anything: He jokes around and flirts and bolsters him up and tries his damned best to make him smile.  
They get along exceptionally well, fooling around and pulling of shenanigans until Horner brings them back to reason with a strict glance.  
With Max growing more confident in the unfamiliar and challenging surroundings that is the engineered insanity of Formula One, their friendship off-track blossoms. Roots taking deep into the soil of Daniel’s mind, cherishing Max’s sunny wittiness, his hoarse laughter and smart comebacks. 

Daniel realizes they are made of the same wood, firm and tall, weather beaten. It’s partly their shared character trait, the mentality (of competition and risking your skin every weekend) every driver owns, and partly a bond that connects solely and exclusively them, deep and honest caring despite their age difference and language barriers. 

The thing is, he is friends with Max. He is more than a rival, a polite acquaintance or a colleague. They are friends and something, a lingering voice in the back of his head, in the back of his soul, in the back of his very heart, whispers words like _affection_ and _admiration_ and _attraction_. Daniel is quick to cut it off with a curt shake of his head, curls bobbing and mandatory smile spreading on his lips.  
Of course he admires Max, how _the hell_ is he supposed not to? Max is a perfectly bred racing driver, strong, well built, on the top of his game in all his recklessness and youth and readiness to take any risk to climb the top stairs of the world’s podium. 

_Still_.

It’s the little things that make Daniel look at Max while swallowing beer and the bitter taste of being denied a race finish.  
It’s the little things that make Daniel think that something about Max is _off_.  
It’s the way his strong posture falters a little bit whenever Jos Verstappen enters a room, its temperature dropping alongside Max’s shoulder blades almost unnoticeably.  
Daniel knows deep down he shouldn’t notice as well. _It’s none of your business, mate_. But he notices. It’s as simple as that, he sees, and no matter how much he wants to un-see Max clenching his jaw, swallowing and nodding too fast at his father’s words, he simply and irrefutably can’t. Max’s slightly widened eyes, his nervously twitching fingers and uncertain smirk are imprinted to his eyelids. 

One thing he learned in the first couple of months of Max working for RBR is how fucking brilliant the young Dutchman is at hiding, at acting, at pretending. He has mastered the art of deflecting and evading the piercing questions in a way that doesn’t fall far from dodging deadly bullets.

He finds it impossible to not keep looking for these little signs, these little things confirming his suspicion whenever he sees Max and they spend a hell of a lot of time together these days.  
He waits in ambush, he pricks up his ears and lays in constant vigilance.  
In the meantime Daniel returns to flirting and joking and bolstering Max up. And it works. Max lightens up their sets, the exchangeable party venues or the garage with the hoarse laughter of a scrawny teenager and tells childhood stories about teasing his sister or going camping in an excellent and joyous bravado, while Daniel listens and watches with his mouth slightly ajar, concentrating on the thick European accent and instantly mirroring Max’s excitement. 

They are _Max and Daniel_ more often than they are _Verstappen and Ricciardo_ and it stirs something inside Daniel. That closeness to a teammate, a rival. And it’s the reason that bloody interview gets to him the way it does.

 

The way Max joked about his childhood made his innards clench in an utterly painful way. He remembers thinking _what?_ and later on asking Max _what?_ and receiving the same distanced and indifferent shrug. “Yeah, the backlash from the media is nothing compared to what my father did. I’m grateful, like that I can focus on the race. Let them talk, I don’t care.”  
Daniel remembers standing in the doorframe, mouth agape, eyes watering from being fixed on Max for such a long time without blinking, without looking away – but there was nothing to look away from, just Max lounging on the sofa and fiddling with his phone.  
Daniel felt his heart sink to the floor and beyond at the sight, the _callousness_ in Max making a bitter taste rise in his dustily dry mouth.  
Most of them have had strict parents. He remembers his own father having denied him some freedom a young teenager would measure his happiness and being and life with and how it felt like the biggest injustice, crucial and inhuman and a crime against all that is just and fair and human. It’s what has to be done, the deprivation of choosing a sports career, of bearing the risk of investing all and losing everything if it doesn’t work. Daniel owes so much to his parents and he knows it’s the same for Max. (Although it isn’t, but Daniel didn’t know to what extend back then). He has of course heard some stories about Jos Verstappen from the time he drove for Minardi but being a driver and being a father are two very different things and who is Daniel to judge about the latter?  
So Daniel made the biggest mistake of his entire life when he turned around and left Max alone.

 _Still_.

Daniel can’t let go of that interview and his suspicion that something is horribly wrong with Max’s behavior being confirmed again and again makes him look even more closely. 

It’s the little things that twist and turn in Daniel’s mind (the way Max verbally attacked an engineer after his car failed him in Austria for the third time in a row, the way he snorted and wildly shook his head at the press pen and slammed the door to his hotel room shut late at night with a loud yell, voice slurred by alcohol) and that leads Daniel to lock himself in his room and read these articles. 

His German is bad and his Dutch is even worse, so Daniel sticks to the English ones and some in Italian, always switching from the browser to the dictionary-app and back again whenever an unknown word mingles in the sentences and seems to be too important to be skipped past.  
He is aware of the treason he commits. He should ask Max, plainly, directly, honestly like they’ve talked about everything else before. Daniel gnaws at his lower lip, eyes fixed to the phone screen which casts a harsh light at his face, creating dark shadows around his eyes and chin. How in hell is he supposed address that to Max? _Hey, mate, is it possible that your father abused you, I mean, wow, what a prick. Anyway how’s the car? Ready for Baku?_  
Certainly not.  
With every word that Daniel reads, every article and reportage he absorbs like a sponge, his eyes widen and hot tears pool in his eyes (it’s because of the bright screen, he tells himself).  
A hand flies to his mouth at some parts and he throws the phone aside when it gets too much.  
A hand still covers his mouth when he recollects all the stories he heard from other drivers, remembers Kevin ranting about Verstappen in memory of his father’s experiences with the Dutch. He remembers all the comments and reactions to Max’s hot headedness. He remembers Max mentioning the divorce of his parents and words like _restraining order_ and _domestic violence_ circle through Daniel’s mind and mixing with the lingering voice in the back of his head, the admiration and affection he feels for Max.  
He gets up in a swift motion, electrical energy buzzing in his icy cold fingertips. He glances at his phone and sees a picture of Max and Jos arm in arm under the headline of some online tabloid, Max being the spitting image of his father and digs his trembling fingers into his curls, scrapes over his skull.  
“Fuck!” he hisses. 

_Fuck, I knew it was bad, but this…_

Daniel huffs and finds himself wandering through his hotel room like a tiger behind cage bars again, his rage in a desperate search of a way out again.  
It’s different this time though. He sees Max, his coldness, his determination, his cruelty and recklessness. But he sees the layer of humor and generosity and calmness and care beneath it and the image of Sophie Kumpen ghosts through Daniel’s mind.  
Daniel's thoughts tumble through his brain, overlapping each other like waves of a troubled see, wearing out his conscience until only one thought is left in his brain.  
_What if…_  
He fumbles for his phone again, closing a tab and opening another and typing almost blindly.  
A knock on his door disturbs the silence of the room and startles him to an amount Daniel isn’t proud of.  
He quickly wipes his face when the door swings open already and a yawning and grumpy Max Verstappen shuffles past Daniel and flops down face first onto the sofa.  
“I can’t sleep, can we watch TV?”  
Daniel stands in the middle of the room, echoes of his thoughts ghosting from one coastline of his mind to the other, reverberating suspicions and demanding his attention. 

“Yeah, sure.” He says blinking away the shadows and tugging his phone away.  
“What do you wanna watch?” he asks and sits down next to Max, who murmurs a muffled “I don’t care, really.” into the cushions.  
Daniel feels himself smiling and turns on the flat screen to some reality TV channel that fills the silence and Daniel’s head with mindless blabber. He mentally shakes his head at Max. _Typical_ , showing up late and demanding company like a moody old cat.  
He really tries to focus on the screen (and succeeds for solid eighteen minutes, spending more time watching the clock than following the digital pictures in front of him). He feels his phone burning in his pocket. A side glance at Max reveals that he fell asleep.  
Daniel tries to move as little as possible while fishing his phone out of his pocket, grateful for the loose wool of his sweatpants. 

He types, pauses, types again, scrolls, pauses, scrolls, stops.  
His whole body and being come to a complete standstill as if he’d just crashed his car and found himself buried in the barriers – smoke rising from the wreck and the smell of burned rubber filling his windpipe. 

_Child abuse: all forms of physical and/or emotional ill-treatment, sexual abuse, neglect or negligent treatment or commercial or other exploitation, resulting in actual or potential harm to the child’s health, survival, development or dignity in context of a relationship of responsibility, trust or power.”_ “ 

Daniel lowers his phone, glances at Max and swallows the salty taste of tears.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Story title from  
> Gang of youths – “the heart is a muscle”, great Australian band Daniel is actually friends with^^ 
> 
> I guess, we all know the articles, I mentioned here and we will go more into details in the following chapters ;)
> 
> Thanks for reading and… read you soon, folks!


	2. Finding allies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello folks!
> 
> What a race that was yesterday, Jesus Christ, my heart nearly gave out midway!
> 
> Thanks for your encouraging and motivating comments, keep it coming, guys, that really fuels me beyond imagination :D 
> 
> Here the next chapter of this rather strange project, I hope you guys like it and have fun!

For Daniel a summer break had never been more _convenient_.  
He is weary and tired, the season so far having been brilliant, he’s been on an absolute winning streak, but it _is_ exhausting beyond imagination. The never ending twirl of camera lights flashing, the ever same questions pelting his brain, the constant howling of engines reverberating in his ears – Daniel is really happy to shut it all out for a whole week and enjoy _home_.  
He enjoys racing, competing, challenging himself and others, the success and attention, but he enjoys being home, being around his friends and family, sheltered, truly cared for to the exact same amount. If not even a little bit more, especially when his mother cooks his favorite dish as a welcome dinner. 

They prepare everything together and it’s like cogs in a clockwork, how they move through the cramped kitchen without bumping into each other. They follow a rhythm that has been the same for over twenty years. His mother hums a low and husky tune. His father rinses tomatoes in a quick and safe motion. Daniel looks at his parents and a sudden realization strikes him like a violent blow. He is so lucky. He is so lucky to have such amazing parents. He watches his father fight a battle with the strenuous parmesan grater he is destined to lose and glances at his mum who leans against the counter watching her husband with all the love and adoration of the universe glistening in her ebony eyes. Grace laughs at Joe blatantly, sipping from her sparkling wine glass and shaking her head.  
“Daniel, buddy, help your father, before there is bloodshed. Mio Dio, la pasta scuoce!”  
Daniel downright _giggles_ before he rushes to the rescue of his utterly overstrained dad.  
“Se vuoi, posso preparare la tavola, papà.”  
Joe looks at his son for a moment and mutters a theatrically huffed “Degraded to do assistance service… by my own son.” before scurrying off.  
Daniel pilfers some parmesan crumbs and smirks. 

 

Half an hour later Daniel leans back in his chair and feels like he’s going to explode any second from being stuffed with pasta.  
“This is happiness.” He states with a deep sigh, reckons whether he can bring up the sheer physical strength to hinge for his wine glass and decides he doesn’t. He yawns and laughs heartily. “I missed you. And your cooking.”  
Grace pats his hand and smirks.  
“We missed you, too, buddy. I wish you could come home more often.”  
“I know, by the end of September I’ll come home regularly in between the Asian races. Other than that…”  
“We know, Daniel, it’s a long journey from Europe.”  
Daniel sees sadness spreading in his mother’s eyes and smiles at her warmly.  
He realizes that no matter how big the deprivations are he makes in order to be where he is in life now, his parents follow him every step of the way – every step. And they have done so from the very day he got into the plastic chassis of his first bobby car. All the long hours in the garage, his father’s jeep starting to rust in favor of Daniel’s kart staying dry. All the discussions with Daniel’s teachers about him missing Fridays and sometimes even Mondays when the straining karting schedule forced Daniel to skip school – or handing in scribbled homework on oil-smeared dog-eared sheets or falling asleep mid class reeking of petrol and dirt. All the late night calls Grace answered without hesitation, without a hint of tiredness or annoyance when her son asked her how the dish washer in his flat in Verona worked or where the button on his laundry machine was to make the drum turn counterclockwise when his bedclothes demanded to be washed “left-handedly”.  
His parents were with him every day of his life, supportive, helping, giving. And wishing for nothing in return than Daniel being truthfully and completely happy.  
Daniel smiles at his mom and tries to put all his gratitude and love and trust into it while idly stroking her knuckles. 

A sudden image appears before his eyes, uninvited, unneeded, unwelcomed.  
He imagines Max sitting with them at this table, his full lips reddened by the sweet wine, equally satiated and a wide grin on his face. An honest and open and carefree grin, matching the loosened muscles in his shoulder blades and his warm hand holding Daniel’s, blatantly displayed on the table surface, while he laughs wholeheartedly at one of his father’s dry jokes. It’s the little things about that picture that makes it ever becoming reality recede into the far distance of Daniel’s imagination.  
He is horrifyingly sure by now that Max has never shared a moment like this before with his own parents. A moment as regular and familiar in Daniel’s eyes that it is the picture headlined with the simple yet momentous word _home_.  
Daniel shakes his head hardly noticeably. 

“Vi voglio bene.” He murmurs and suddenly has to swallow past a lump in his throat. “a entrambi.”  
Joe Ricciardo, being a reserved and calm man in his sixties wipes his cheeks and nods at his son, quickly lowering his glance to his fork again while clearing his throat and struggling with his emotions.  
Grace on the other hand gets up, plants a peck on his forehead and wipes away the remains of lipstick while giggling softly.  
“We love you, too, buddy, mio raggio di sole.”  
Daniel grins at that well known and loved reaction and ruffles his hair, shaking off the image of Max that still sits in the far corner of his brain, poking him, teasing him.  
He contemplates bringing up the subject, laying out his doubts and feelings concerning his rival, but decides not to in the very last second.  
He loves his parents more than anything else in this world, but he is their son and that includes the privilege of keeping secrets from them from time to time. 

He hears his parents doing the dishes together and tastes the beautiful reminders of salty cheese, ripe berries and love on his tongue.  
The mellow smile spreads on his lips without him having any say in it. 

 

 

Daniel has been fiddling with his phone for hours. There is no sign of Max in the World Wide Web, his digital fingerprint nonexistent, his Instagram feed empty and it drives Daniel mad.  
_Maybe I should call him? Ask him if everything is alright and how he’s doing?_  
Daniel spins the phone between his thumb and index finger like every time he’s nervous.  
He wipes his forehead and sighs.  
_Nervous about calling Max… as if._

 

Still.

 

The itchiness of the past free week has turned into a myriad of ants mincing right underneath his skin – the nasty Australian kind. He feels restless, catches himself checking for Max’s online presence every fifteen minutes and  
is left disillusioned, borderline disappointed when there is still just Max’s neutral face staring back at him from a picture announcing the summer break and him returning home.  
_Does he mean Monaco or Amsterdam?_  
And Daniel realizes how _little_ he actually knows about Max and how _colossal_ the impact of his theory and suspicion is. The worst part is that not knowing Max bothers him to an extend it definitely shouldn’t. It took him four days to realise that he _misses_ Max. He misses the familiar sounds coming from his apartment. He misses their regular meetings on his balcony for a tasting of the new beer types from Blue Coast. He misses his hoarse laughter, dry comebacks and cobalt blue eyes that can change their color into the shades of ice cold glaciers or of the seawater of the Maldivian coast. That (missing Max and the fact that he knows what natural spectacles Max’s eyes remind him of) adds up to his itchiness and changes it into something deeply unsettling and nauseating. 

With every passing hour Daniel gets more fidgety and he concludes that it can’t go on like this. He needs to talk to someone about this. Well, not someone, but a person he trusts and he knows and that knows him and that can relate to the problem at hand – whatever it may be at the end.  
Daniel cards his fingers through his curls yet again and eyes is phone suspiciously.  
He grabs it and scrolls through his contact list. Who should he call? 

Hamilton? Way too risky. Although Daniel would call Lewis his friend, he wouldn’t call him an ally.  
Horner? Too close to both, Max and Jos. He sits between the frontlines enough to be dragged deeper into the ditch next to Daniel.  
Webber? At least a fellow Aussie, but their contact is less frequent and Mark works for the press in the end. Daniel wouldn’t gamble with the possibility of anything seeping through to the media. _Sorry, Mark, I still love ya._

Daniel groans and scrolls back up again.  
His thumb hovers over a name and he bites his lip.  
_It’s worth a shot._  
He clicks and dials and half a minute later a soft voice answers in an English accent.  
“Daniel, to what do I owe the honor? How are you?”  
“Hey, Jenson. I’m good, thanks. And you? How’s married life treading you?”  
“Hey, thanks, well, I guess, I’m slowly getting used to being settled down, you know? You sound kind of nervy, are you alright, mate?”  
_more or less._  
“Listen, you wanna come over for a few days?”  
“Are you at home?”  
_more or less._  
“Yes, I am. Do you want to swing by? We could visit Mark if he’s around, too.”  
“Pah, as long as Grace’s going to cook that exceptional ragout of hers, I’m up for almost anything.” 

 

 

It takes Daniel a few hours to remember why Button is the right choice to turn to, but he does when they sit in one corner of the lavishly and comfortable veranda and open their second bottle of dry and weighty red wine.  
“Now with the wedding being cut and dry, everything goes back to normal slowly but surely. Britt is away a lot. Actually your invitation was just perfectly timed, I was going stir-crazy at home.”  
Daniel laughs and leans back into the soft cushions decorating the dark wooden bench.  
“Why? You’re already fed up with being a houseman? I mean, you clearly gained some weight!”  
“Arsehole.”  
Button shakes his head and the insult loosens its bite, being overpowered by a wide and warm grin.  
“You should visit me some time, you know?”  
“For old times’ sake?”, Daniel asks and it sounds more bitter than he implied.  
Jenson cocks his head at that and snorts.  
“No, because I’m inviting you. I like you.”  
Daniel doesn’t answer but smiles softly and takes a sip from his wine glass instead.  
“So how is life treading you, mate?”  
“It’s brilliant to finally have some time for myself, you know? Being able to properly look after the dogs, cook my own dinner and all that boring domestic stuff, I never had the proper chance to do during the last fifteen years. It’s crazy, I actually annoyed the cleaning lady so much she quit last month.”  
Daniel laughs wholeheartedly at that.  
“Because you were taking away her job?”  
“Exactly, and Anita is a woman you honestly don’t want to mess with, I mean, phew.”  
Jenson smirks into his wine glass and takes a generous swig before eyeing the plain fields and scarcely scattered trees that dotted the area around the Ricciardo’s back porch.  
“It’s nice here.” The Englishman announces blatantly. “I missed you, you know?”  
Daniel chuckles and accuses the wine for making him act tipsily. Well, he _is_ tipsy, a little bit at least. 

It’s the effect of having Jenson around. The Brit has always been one of Daniel’s favorite fellow drivers in all his charm and charisma and quiet and gentle nature. From the first time they met, Daniel being a half-baked rookie compared to Jenson Button, the seasoned executive in the MacLaren garage, he had felt drawn to the Englishman. Daniel has always thought (and still does nowadays) that if he was to grow up to be one of the older drivers he shared the grid with, it would have been Button. In all his excellent leadership, honest openness, sharp intellect and wit and calm caring he is the epitome of what Daniel understood as an English gentleman. There have been times where things escalated between them, but they are both touchy drunks and the adrenaline of winning your first race being a major contribution as well in them ending up making out in a dark corner of a shabby pub. It’s just been one or two memorable nights and despite it having changed a few things, it was more to the positive in general. Although Daniel still feels his heart leap at times when he looks at Jenson and Jenson looks at him like that – _open_ and _caring_ and _attractive_ \-- it is even excelled by his trust in him.  
It’s probably the reason he followed his gut and invited him over in the first place (it’s definitely that). 

Now he scratches his temple awkwardly and grins at Jenson, who watches him with a mischievous glint eyes that look a lot like the surface of a forest pond on an early spring morning.  
Daniel swallows drily and searches for a possible start for his story, a logical first step in explaining the downward spiral his mind has entered.  
He opens his mouth and realizes that there is no way to start this conversation without making a fool of himself, so he takes a deep breath and utters the first words that tumble into his thoughts.  
“Have you ever thought about the ways we end up and where we are in life? What drives us to strive for something, whether it’s a family or success or love?”  
He kept his eyes glued to the far end of his parents’ property, a simple wooden fence marking the border to their neighbor’s crop field, and looks up at Jenson now who stares into his bulbous wine glass.  
“Yeah, sometimes I think about that. Or at least I thought about it before I retired. I asked myself whether I was really done with it all or was there more for me to achieve. Why are you asking?”  
Honest concern flashes across Jenson’s face. “You’re not thinking about retiring, are you?”  
“No, no, of course not.” Daniel answers immediately and it draws a relieved sigh from his former colleague. “And I don’t mean the huge decisions in life, to be honest. I mean, you always wanted to be a racing driver, right?” He doesn’t wait for Jenson to nod, he knows anyway. “And I can say the same about myself, there was no other option for me. And I would be supportive towards my kids if they wanted to pursue a career in racing, but I… I wouldn’t force them to follow my footsteps, you know?”  
Daniel realizes he’s gesturing wildly, as always when he gets carried away with his talk. Jenson seems to recognize it as well because he lowers his own glass and looks Daniel straight in the eyes, sorting out his mind before answering.  
“I think, it’s natural for the child of a racer to become one as well. Call it DNA or mindset or lunacy, it’s simply a very special and rare combination of predispositions and I do believe that it is partly hereditary.”  
Daniel nods, clears his throat and hypnotizes the by now oily remains of wine circling in the glass he twirls between his hands.  
“I don’t know, mate, I just wouldn’t force my kids to use those traits. What if they want to do something entirely else?” His voice falters and he lets out the air he can’t press into words anymore because he’s void of ideas all of a sudden.  
A small smile appears on Jenson’s lips and it catches Daniel off guard.  
“Daniel, you don’t _have_ kids, you don’t need to worry about that.”  
“I know.”  
The breath Daniel takes is shaky and it startles himself. He has no idea what to say anymore, if he even did earlier.  
Silence settles between them and they watch the different shades of blue of the sky darken to black, illuminated by millions of stars. The blue reminds Daniel of Max’s eyes and the thought makes him empty his wine glass in one large gulp. The tannins tingle his tongue and dry his throat.  
Jenson watches him again and Daniel lets him. Crickets chirp in the grass at their feet and the solar lamps in the garden come to life like gigantic battery-powered fire flies. 

“So Verstappen, mh?”  
_What?_  
“How-?”  
“Mate, I may have left the circus, but I’m neither dumb nor blind. You like that kid.”  
“Don’t call him that. He’s a great guy. And I honestly doubt he’s ever been a child for that matter.”  
“How come? Because of his old man?”  
Daniel closes his mouth after a second of pure astonishment.

“You know, you may be old as shit, but you still have a good eye for those kind of things.”  
“Thanks, I appreciate it, but you’re evading the question, quite badly, I might add. That talk about kids and careers… what are you trying to say?”  
His eyes soften a little and he shifts on the bench until their shoulders touch. It’s a wordless invitation, an offer Daniel will gladly take. Jenson’s smile fades, the humor vanishes into the nightly air between them and is replaced by calmness and understanding. When Jenson speaks again his voice is soft and warm.  
“Why am I here?”  
And Daniel tells him everything, he strips his soul bare and vents all the itching and scratching uncertainty that follows his theories. It’s one mighty outlet of everything and nothing at all.  
All his anger and hate towards Jos Verstappen, all the pain he imagines Max has gone through and that oddly feels like his own now. The unknown that scares him, the hope that blossoms inside his gut to right all wrong and mend Max.  
Daniel lays everything bare, interrupted only by short pauses to catch his breath, taming his galloping heartbeat and oiling his voice with more wine. 

 

When it’s over, Daniel’s throat is dry and his eyes burn, Jenson falls back into the cushions and stares into his almost empty glass.  
Daniel can almost _feel_ him think.  
“That’s bad. I mean, I heard rumors of course. I’ve read about his outbursts, Jos tearing apart the RBR garage and insulting engineers and all that crazy stuff, but, phew, that is awful.”  
Daniel feels strength and energy leaving his body alongside the itchiness, now that he has a confidant to turn to. He refills their glasses again and wipes his face.  
“I’m afraid, Max inherited a lot of his temper, and that’s okay, I can’t shake the Italian stubbornness as well and you would drop everything to have your English tea at five o’clock. It’s who we are, but what if he, what if Jos…”  
He can’t bring himself to finish the sentence and the simple fact that Jenson _knows_ what he’s trying to say is the unneeded justification for his presence on this specific veranda near Perth, Australia.  
“What if he beats him? Or has beat him, because I really can’t imagine it still happening with Max being in the center of attention so much lately? Have you seen any…” This time it’s Jenson who doesn’t finish his statement and Daniel flinches when he realizes that he is asking whether his young team mate is physically abused to a level that leaves marks on his body.  
Daniel takes a shaky intake of breath and drops his head to his hands.  
_Fuck! Fuck, what if…_

He rummages to the catalogue of pictures in his brain, Max in shorts in the gym, in swim trunks on Stroll’s yacht in the Monegasque harbor, Max with a towel wrapped around his waist when Daniel knocked at his hotel room door early in the morning.  
He shakes his head in mixture of relief and bitterness and drinks yet again.  
Jenson sighs beside him and Daniel can _hear_ him swallow drily.  
Daniel blames the alcohol for the quiet sob that disentangles itself somewhere in his windpipe and claws its way up his throat and stumbles over his tongue and his chapped lips into the cool night.  
It’s the alcohol that lets him lean against Jenson’s side, the Englishman wrapping one arm around him is just an attempt to make their sitting positions more comfortable.  
“I’m so sorry, Daniel, I don’t know what to say. It’s a good sign that there seems to be no physical harm involved. That’s a start. But abuse is more than beating and getting hit. Sometimes more damage is caused by non-physical and silent violence.”  
Jenson’s raspy voice falters completely at that and it may be Daniel’s alcohol fogged senses but he certainly feels Jenson pulling him closer.  
“Fuck, I never thought, it might be this bad…”  
A myriad of thoughts somersault inside Daniel’s mind, threatening to capsize his brain and overthrow his sanity to an amount that he simply shakes his head, lulled by Jenson’s scent and the warmth of his flanks.  
“If your assumptions turn out to be true, and the only way to be sure of that is talking to Max himself, Horner needs to know. No matter whether Max is of age or not, he needs to know and take actions. Jos Verstappen needs to be put in his place.”  
Daniel smiles into the fabric of Jenson’s shirt and detangles himself a little from the older man’s grip.  
Their eyes meet and Daniel _knows_ he’s found the ally he was looking for.  
“What about Max? How am I supposed to talk to him about that? It’s _abuse_ we’re talking about here, Jenson, how can I bring that up without totally running him over?”  
“You should talk to him, though. Find out what truly happened.” Jenson’s voice is firm and an anchor for Daniel in the dark. “Journalists can be like hyenas. I don’t think they’ve made this all up, but the only way to be completely sure is talking to Max.”  
Pictures ghost through Daniel’s mind, of bruised pale skin, tear streaks on small faces, monstrous shadows cast over little sleeping forms. He shakes his head violently and bites back the sob that clogs his throat like a noose tightening around his neck.  
“What if I… I can’t?”  
He _senses_ Jenson taking a step back mentally. They sit in silence for a second and when Jenson speaks this time his voice is reassuring and strong.  
“Do you have to talk to him about it? Maybe you can do other things in order to help him. Be his friend, a friendly face in a crowd of rivals.”  
Daniel thinks about that for a second and remembers the little detail from the mental image he thought of during his first dinner back home. Max’s and his own fingers intertwined on the table surface. A smile spreads on his lips without him having any say in it.  
“What if I want to be more than that?”  
Of course, Jenson gets him again this time around, too. He grants Daniel a small pause, though, just for good measure.  
“You fell in love with him, didn’t you?”  
Daniel doesn’t flinch at that, he doesn’t deny it, he doesn’t even try.  
_Maybe I am in love with him, I don’t know._  
He voices the thought and gets a soft smile as an answer.  
“You don’t have to know. That’s the thing with love, you never know. No matter how _sure_ you are, you never really _know_.”  
Daniel understands. His breathing hitches and he understands in his clouded mind what Jenson implies. 

The night settled around them while they were talking, darkness wrapping a soft and lukewarm blanket around them with a bright white moon sitting enthroned in between a multitude of subdued twinkling stars as her peasants. Lights from inside the house cast long corridors of yellow stripes onto the wooden panels of the veranda. Starlight reflects in the windows and makes the metallic sills shimmer.  
Daniel sits up a little bit to look at Jenson and _sees_ him for probably the first time since Jenson’s arrival. Soft jawline, flattened mob of blond hair, attractive laughter lines.  
He licks his lips and the wine loosens his tongue.  
“Thank you for coming.”  
With that he leans in and places a shy kiss on Jenson’s cheek. Stubble tickles his lips and the scent of cedar wood and vanilla fills his nostrils.  
Jenson smiles at him from above and lowers his head, his nose touching Daniel’s curls.  
“What did I do to deserve that?”  
Daniel tries to sort out his drunken mind and doesn’t quite succeed, his brain being lulled in by Jenson’s scent, the heavy taste of wine on his tongue and the lightness in his chest.  
Jenson’s hand creeps to Daniel’s neck and plays with the short curls, the other hand resting on his knee.  
It’s the familiar touch that stirs something inside the Aussie. It reminds him of days in Monaco when Max sat on his couch and tucked at his curls in a way that didn’t fall far from _disapproving_. Statements like _”I don’t like them this short.”_ in a thickly accented voice that was heavy with nothing else but _loathing_. 

It’s the alcohol, Daniel reckons that lifts his own head and lets his lips trace over Jenson’s jawline. The Englishman doesn’t startle as much as he probably should, but lowers his head some more.  
Their lips touch calmly, skin brushing against skin lightly.  
Daniel exhales shakily.  
“We shouldn’t.” a husky, raw voice murmurs.  
His intoxicated mind isn't sure who said it.  
“It’s just the alcohol and sentiment talking.”  
Oh, it _is_ Jenson.  
“And you may have a thing for blondes, but I’m not the blonde you want to be with right now.”  
There lingers amusement in Jenson’s voice and Daniel downright _despises_ it.  
He grumbles something inaudible and Button laughs.  
“Let’s get your drunken ass into bed, mate.”  
Jenson gets up, stretches like a cat and grins at Daniel who has got his hands full with adjusting to the missing warmth next to him and the unpleasantly swaying bench.  
Jenson bows down and places a small peck on his lips.  
“I appreciate the compliment though.”  
And it’s that, that lightheartedness and riskiness that breaks the spell of the moment. Daniel shakes his head and ruffles his hair clumsily. He feels heat creeping up his neck and face and is grateful for the darkness surrounding them.  
“I’m sorry.”, he mutters nevertheless partly because he is and partly because it’s the right thing to say.  
Jenson gathers their glasses and clicks his tongue.  
“Don’t be, like I said, I appreciate the compliment. I may be old, but I still got it, right?”  
With that he bloody _winks_ and disappears inside, is swallowed by the darkness of the living room.  
“Annoyingly charming asshole.”, murmurs Daniel and staggers to his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That part about Daniel calling his mother and seeking advice for his bedclothes roots actually in y brother doing the exact same thing when he was fifteen. I’m still not over that one. Sorry, Bro xD 
> 
> And here are the Italian phrases, as accurately translated as possible. A big thanks to **Eris99** for taking the time and correcting my miserable attempt at Italian! Thank you so much! :  
> Mio Dio, la pasta scuoce! – Oh my God, the pasta overcooks.  
> Se vuoi, posso preparare la tavola, papà. – You can set the table, if you like, dad.  
> Vi voglio bene a entrambi. – I love you both so much.  
> mio raggio di sole. – My sunshine.


End file.
